Numbers
by Jayne Foyer
Summary: You're going to die, hisses the red-eyed boy.


**Numbers**

_Liar, cheat and downright sneak  
__L will find them in a week  
__And then one day when L is gone  
__You'll be more than just his pawn

* * *

_

I can predict the future, whispers the boy whose eyes are shining red.

No you can't, replies the blonde-haired, strong-jawed boy across from him.

The red-eyed boy smiles and nods. He holds out his hand expectantly. Hesitantly, the paler boy offers his own hand. The red-eyed boy traces the lines in his palm.

A switchblade appears from beneath his sleeve and where the boy's fingers go, so does the knife. Trails of blood trace across the boy's palm.

You're going to die, hisses the red-eyed boy.

* * *

Give me your arm, says B.

No, says A.

Don't be an A for Asshole, give me your goddamned arm.

He extends a pale arm.

_Rrriiiiipp._ Skin tears like paper.

Fucking shit, B.

Isn't the smell intoxicating, A?

A retches slightly as blood streams down his forearm.

You could've killed me.

Then why'd you give me your fucking arm?

A takes his arm and wraps it gently, one eye on B always. He daren't turn his back towards him for longer than a moment. But B just whistles and cleans his hands in the bathroom, leaving the bloodstained knife in the sink.

Going to breakfast, says B. I'll save you enough jam for your toast.

Thanks, B. I appreciate it.

They both note the sincerity, and the feeling they share is enough to light a candle for a lifetime.

No problem, A. See you in a second.

* * *

The knife is on the bathroom sink.

The knife is on the bathroom sink.

The knife is on the bathroom sink.

He knows that B has noticed that the knife

The knife is not on the bathroom sink.

* * *

B says nothing. At dinner B eats his jam. When a drop spills on A's bandages, it looks like blood. B grins like the Cheshire Cat and suddenly he's ravenous.

* * *

B carves up the inside of his mouth first.

It's A's fault really. In the middle of the night, A brought it up.

A said, They're going to notice soon.

B said, Yeah, you're shit when it comes to hiding bloodstains.

I just haven't had as much practice as you.

No shit, Sherlock. Jesus, no wonder you're L's Alternate. Nothing gets past you, does it, Asshole?

Shut the fuck up and answer the fucking question, B.

There is no question, Asshole. You said no question. Ask the damn question.

Silence.

Then A says, Where won't they notice?

Silence.

B replies, I'll tell them I punched you in the face.

* * *

But everybody knows a mouth doesn't get cut up like that when you punch somebody in the face.

B laughs and tells A to tell them that he ate a bowl of razors for breakfast. Or that he was trying to shave the hairs on the insides of his cheeks.

In the end A hyperventilates and tells them there were insects in his mouth and he had to kill them.

They give A medicine but what B does is crush it into a fine powder and then sniff it up through his nose.

A says, That's going to stop your heart, dumbass.

B says, If it does, will you do me a favour?

What do you want?

Cut out my heart. Taste it. And when it kills you, come to hell and tell me what it tastes like. Oh, how I'd love to eat my own heart. The best revenge.

A says nothing but A is disturbed.

* * *

A limps, the next morning.

He is sent to the doctor. They ask him, Why are you limping?

He says, I twisted my ankle.

They say, Show us your leg.

He says, No.

They restrain him and tear off the grimy bandages.

There it is, written onto his calf.

A

L

T

E

R

N

A

T

E

They send pictures to L.

L deletes the email and that's the final straw.

* * *

L doesn't give a shit about us, says B. Why would he? He's doing good things for humanity and that's gotta take up all his time.

You've never even met L, says A.

Have you?

Of course.

B's eyes are redder than ever. A doesn't say anything and A seems hesitant.

B says, A. A, tell me. What was he like?

He looked like you.

Like me?

Except for the eyes.

B starts to cry.

A never saw B cry and so he reaches out to touch his friend.

B?

A. A. Why do you have to say things like this. Why now, A. Why now.

What? B? What did I do wrong?

B takes A's hand. A shivers slightly; their fingers intertwining sends a thrill down his spine. Except it's not quite a thrill, not until the knife appears and slices through one of A's fingers, right to the bone.

There is a silence.

B says, You can't explain that one.

A says, Not even if I wanted to.

Silence.

B says, You only have one option here.

A says, I know.

* * *

B is delighted to learn he was correct about the numbers he sees.


End file.
